


Everything and This

by suitesamba



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5317814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John’s relationship moves from platonic to physical with no fanfare, no explosive arguments, no drunken confessions. It was just John doing what he always did, and Sherlock finding a fitting new way to thank him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything and This

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write something for Blow Job Friday (Black Friday) on LJ but didn't make it on time. A little late, but still here, with feeling. <3

He wakes, disoriented, in an unfamiliar bed, on sheets smooth and cool, on a pillow so soft he is floating on a dream. He pushes himself up on one elbow. He is alone in the bed, in this room – Sherlock’s room – with its predictable chaos and decadent linens and the lingering aroma of sweat and expensive soap. 

He is sore in all the right places, exhausted beyond measure still, and if he remembers correctly – and he thinks he does, despite the dearth of brain cells he seems to be suffering – Sherlock has a sprained wrist and twelve neat stitches on his face where forehead meets hairline. 

It is dark still, and he fumbles for his mobile on the bedside table to check the time. Five o’clock, and a string of text messages from Sherlock, who can’t sleep, and is concerned that John’s heartrate is too slow, and who would prefer that John make more noise when he sleeps to assure his partner that he hasn’t suffocated in the pillows.

His partner.

John smiles, scoots the mobile across the table until it balances on an open book, and reaches for Sherlock’s pillow. It’s too early to start the day, and if he stays here, maybe – just maybe – Sherlock will come back to bed.

That he is comfortable here does not surprise him. He has shared this flat with Sherlock for so long that everything about him is comforting and familiar, even the parts that played out last night that landed them in the Thames, at the tail end of their case, floating along with the flotsam and jetsam of the underbelly of London. He mentally adds to the _everything_ list now – the taste of Sherlock’s lips, the texture of the taut skin of his abdomen, the warmth of his breath on his face, the thump of his heart as he rested his head on Sherlock’s chest just below the scar – _that_ scar, the turning point of his life.

Rested his head over a heart once stalled.

He pushes away thoughts that threaten to crowd in as stealthy and dense as the London fog, and relaxes into sleep again on Sherlock’s pillow.

ooOOOOoo

A bath in the Thames required a follow-up bath at home. John had gone in first, had hurried through it so that Sherlock, who’d been in the river longer, holding John’s groggy head above water, could take all the time he needed. He’d filled the ice pack, collapsed in his chair, and waited for the pain meds to kick in. He was luckier than Sherlock by far – a bump on his head, a throbbing headache slowly fading away, and his best shoes ruined.

He heard the shower go off, and, after a time, the door open. Footsteps down the corridor. He ticked off a mental list – he’d need to rewrap that sprained wrist, and redress the sutured cut, but minutes ticked by and Sherlock didn’t reappear.

And he didn’t respond when John rapped on his door a few minutes later, steadying himself against the doorframe, medical kit in hand.

“Sherlock?” 

John called his name again, then pushed against the door so that it swung inward a few inches. The table lamp was on, and Sherlock was stretched diagonally across the bed, face up, uninjured arm covering his eyes. He’d towel-dried his hair, but his pillow was damp, wetness staining it in a parody of a halo. His dark curls were plastered to his face, covering the neat row of new stitches at his hairline. The wrist on the bed beside him was unwrapped, and obviously swollen.

“Sherlock – I need to wrap that wrist,” John said, holding up the medical kit. “Come out here where I can see.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. He yawned, staring at John, then closed his eyes again. “You’re already up. Do it in here.”

It was an unusual invitation. John could count on one hand the times he’d been in Sherlock’s room since he moved back to 221B. It was an unwritten rule of sorts, one John had made for himself when he found Sherlock’s door closed nearly all the time. 

_Don’t ask, don’t think about it, don’t go there._

But Sherlock wasn’t moving.

John stepped into the room, feeling like an intruder, eyes resolutely on Sherlock.

“Let me fetch a towel – you’re still damp.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened again. His mouth quirked up. “Damp?”

“Your hair, you dolt. It’s dripping all over those sutures- the sutures you’re not supposed to get wet.”

“Couldn’t be helped. My hair smelled of sewage.”

“Yeah. I imagine it did.” John rubbed a hand over his own hair, short, more grey than blonde now. Shampooed twice and already dry.

He returned with the towel, and stood beside the bed for a moment, hesitating, then dropped down softly to sit beside Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t move as John examined his face, pushed dripping hair away from the cut, and patted the sutured cut with the towel. Sherlock remained perfectly still as he scrutinized the stitches, dried the skin again, then applied a clean bandage. 

“Arm now,” he said, and he deftly wrapped it, then arranged it across Sherlock’s chest.

“You’ve been a surprisingly good patient,” he said, smiling fondly at Sherlock, who had to be exhausted or in pain or both to have behaved so well. “But we’re all out of lollipops.” 

“Hmmm.” Sherlock didn’t seem to much care that there weren’t any lollies. But in a move as smooth and fluid as the arc of the bow over his violin, he took a prize anyway. He reached up with his good hand and wrapped long fingers around the back of John’s neck and pulled him forward.

And kissed him.

There was no argument leading up to the kiss. No great flare of emotion. The latest death scare was hours ago, nearly forgotten already. There had been no declarations, no baring of souls, no drunken confessions. John was simply doing what he always did, and Sherlock was simply thanking him.

For this, and everything that came earlier, and everything that would come after.

Thanking him in a way untried before, but not unimagined. Pulling him closer, mindful of his injury, holding on to his neck as he ended the kiss, pulling away just enough to catch his breath, to gage John’s reaction, to smile and kiss him again.

John didn’t allow himself to think as Sherlock pulled him forward, didn’t stop the natural progression of giving into that pull, falling forward onto his hands and knees, straddling Sherlock’s hips, hands braced on the pillow on either side of his head. 

There were no apologies. No asking permission. No _is this all right?_ or _I’m so sorry_ or even _I’ve been wanting to do that forever._

John was kissing Sherlock and Sherlock was canting his hips and _fuck_ this was _right_. At last, he felt the pieces slotting together, felt them reshape themselves, all without words, without effort. Seamless. As natural as breathing, as instinctive as gulping air before going underwater. Sherlock pressed his hips up again, insistent, breathless, fingers tightening on John’s neck, moaning into his mouth as John let the weight of his body fall on him, freeing a hand and working it down between them, feeling Sherlock through his pajamas, fumbling with the elastic waistband, pulling it down and away then closing his hand around the exquisite length, warm and damp and hard and _fuck_ it wasn’t enough. 

He scooted back to rest in the warmth between Sherlock’s thighs, and stared at the cock in his hand, and without further thought, slid his hand down to the base and took the cock in his mouth, as if he’d always done this, had always been here, taking in as much as he could take, _more_ than he could take, riding it out as Sherlock writhed, one hand on his shoulder still, fingers biting into his muscles. It hadn’t mattered that he’d never done this, never performed this act, never mouthed another man’s cock. This was Sherlock, and he knew everything about Sherlock, could arguably claim to have shared every other element of his life with him. 

And now this, too. 

“God – John….”

The words…the voice…the way the sound vibrated through his skin as he swallowed around Sherlock’s cock. The head pressed against the back of this throat, and he gripped the base tightly, his own cock thick and hard and needy beneath him. He could feel the stretch of Sherlock’s legs, the pull of the muscles in his thighs, the very arch of his feet as Sherlock strained, staving off orgasm, drawing it out like a long and slow pull at a cigarette, holding his breath, refusing to breathe.

When he came, he came explosively, jerking with a strangled cry, and John swallowed until he was spent, then released him gently, and rested his cheek on juncture of thigh and belly, panting, wanting nothing more than to rut into the sheets or against Sherlock or better, into his mouth, that ridiculous, decadent, bow-lipped mouth that had such expressions, and said such _things_ , words fired at machine-gun pace that could never keep up with the speed of his brain. He tiredly kissed the base of Sherlock’s cock – how fitting, he thought, that Sherlock’s cock was as brilliant as his mind, as demanding as his intellect.

“Come here.” Sherlock murmured, hand closing around John’s wrist and tugging gently. 

And John complied, and they were kissing again, Sherlock not shying away from the taste of himself on John, arm wrapped tightly around his back now as John’s cock pressed against his hip.

“Your turn.” Sherlock’s voice was a murmur, quiet yet sure, as John mouthed down his neck, sucked on his clavicle. He held on to John as he rolled to his side, reached over him and fumbled in the drawer, pressed a condom and lube into his hand.

John stared at his hand, then back at Sherlock. He fumbled for words, hesitant, despite the overwhelming desire to take what was on offer without question. “Sherlock – you don’t have … I mean, I’ve never….”

“You’ll like it – I promise,” Sherlock said, reaching down between them as he spoke and taking John in hand. 

And _fuck_ , of _course_ he’d like it. He thrust forward as Sherlock tightened his grip, moved his fist down, skirted fingers lightly over John’s bollocks, then upward again to graze against his length, squeezing the head. 

“Right – right,” John panted, “but what about you? We don’t have to – to do - _this_.” He groaned as Sherlock’s hand continued to caress him, as it released him, worked onto his arse, squeezed his buttock.

“I’ll like it,” Sherlock assured him, maneuvering over onto his hands and knees, dropping down onto his elbows. “Honestly John, I’ve waited long enough. I’m ready.”

The mechanics weren’t a mystery. No rocket science this, but basic anatomy, with familiar parts and pieces, and an established knowledge of what feels good, what he liked. Lube and condom – Christ, he knew what to do with those – and God he wanted this. Wanted to bury himself in Sherlock more than he’d ever before wanted to bury himself in anyone, deeper than he’d ever gone before. Body and soul and heart and mind deep. He rolled on the condom, not letting himself think. Uncapped the lube and squeezed it onto his fingers, let out a breath and grazed his fingers down the crease between those perfect arse cheeks, inserting a fingertip carefully as Sherlock exhaled sharply, slowly working it deeper, then pulling it gently out again. Caressing the puckered skin as he worked to loosen him, delving into the tightness, the heat, rolling the finger around when he was as deep as he could go, feeling Sherlock press back against him, moaning, _wanting_ it. He couldn’t stop now – wouldn’t stop even if the world exploded around them and 221B was sucked straight into the depths of hell. 

“Alright, then?” he asked, a catch in his voice, as he pulled out, clumsily added more lube, then began to press in with two fingers now.

“More,” answered Sherlock breathlessly. A single word, invitation and order, and John drove slowly forward, working those two fingers in and out, slow and deep, until Sherlock was writhing, and begging for another, pressing back against him, grinding in a manner so utterly human that John nearly wept.

He added another finger, long after Sherlock first demanded the third, working all three in, fascinated by the sight of his fingers working Sherlock’s arse, so tight with arousal himself he had to lean against Sherlock’s legs to keep his balance. 

“Enough – enough,” Sherlock demanded. “Just do it, John.”

Sinking into Sherlock, agonizingly slowly, hands clenched on his hips, was the most brilliant thing John had ever done, making moot every sexual act he’d ever before performed. Sherlock was tight, and hot, and brilliantly focused, amazingly needy. John might be topping, but Sherlock was clearly in charge, controlling the depth of John’s thrusts, the angle, the pace. Every time John sank in, Sherlock would rock back against him, breathing his name, murmuring praise, demanding more, _faster, harder, deeper. I’m not about to break, John. I’m not made of glass. Yours, John, always yours._

He could not possibly be in this deep, held this tightly. Arousal coiled in him, full and low and taut and hot, and he snapped his hips, and dug his fingers into Sherlock’s pale flesh as Sherlock nearly growled, and took him even harder, though that wasn’t even _possible_ , and when orgasm came it ripped out of him like a demon spirit, leaving him a quivering, throbbing shell of a man, heart and soul poured out into Sherlock.

Sherlock, who lay panting beneath him, utterly spent.

Sherlock who’d known what he’d needed, what he’d always wanted.

Sherlock who rolled up against him, who spooned behind him, who kissed him on the shoulder, and sighed sleepily, and murmured, “Next time, you can top,” before falling asleep as John shook his head in wonder and exasperation, buried in extravagant sheets and the smell of sex and the warm embrace of Sherlock’s arms.

ooOOOoo

He sleeps there now, on Sherlock’s pillow, in a garden of sheets soft enough, decadent enough for a king. The light is strengthening, shining on the bed through the windows like a golden spotlight, as if all of London knows what they’ve done, and is providing a suitable stage to present their tableau.

“Are you ever getting up?”

Sherlock stands in the door, looking very much like he’s been awake half the night, and he probably has. His eyes are on John, looking so at home in his bed that despite what he says, he thinks he’d be fine with John staying there the rest of the day and into the night.

“Aren’t you ever coming to bed?” John replies. 

He’s smiling at Sherlock, and he is so comfortable there, so at ease, that Sherlock cannot resist stepping into the room, shrugging off his dressing gown with a falsely resigned sigh. He slides into bed beside John, and there is no awkwardness at all as John rolls onto his side and kisses him, no insistence that they need to talk, no apologies, not even one of the sixty-seven different scenarios Sherlock had anticipated, envisioned. No reason at all to have stayed awake from two o’clock in the morning until now, playing the violin softly so as not to disturb John’s slumber, drinking tea on the sofa, staring ahead with knees drawn up to his chest.

John kisses the skin beside his ear, moves his mouth over stubbled jawline, clearly aroused as he presses against Sherlock. “Ready for another go?” he whispers, hand settling on Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock is.

Now – today. Tonight, tomorrow, always and forever and John should _know_ this but Sherlock forgives him, because it’s early, and new, even though it’s been like this forever. It just wasn’t _time_ before – before yesterday, and that bloody river, and John hitting his head and going under and….

_No._

He tucks those thoughts away, in the dark recesses of his mind palace where only shadows dare trespass, and kisses John’s chin, the lovely corner of his delectable mouth. 

“If we must,” he says. 

And John grins, and presses him back against the pillows, and rolls atop him.

“We must,” he says, and Sherlock melts into the moment, into the pillows, into the warmth of John, for he has everything, and now this, too.


End file.
